


What I Covet, I Keep

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blasphemy, Dancing, F/F, Lovers To Enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: Some time before the Conclave, Vivienne and Leliana share a dance.
Relationships: Leliana/Vivienne (Dragon Age)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	What I Covet, I Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe this is the first time I've written this ship? Blasphemy.

The Left Hand of the Divine is well known to be a recluse, perpetually lurking in the shadows, draped in dreary robes as if in mourning. In the Grand Cathedral, when she is not by the side of Divine Justinia, one might find her kneeling in the small chapel in the gardens or standing frozen, gazing thoughtfully up at one of the many statues of Andraste adorning the halls and outdoor areas.

They're somewhat excessive, Vivienne finds: those multitudes of statues, giving the impression that no matter where one goes inside the Cathedral, Andraste's watchful eyes rest upon you — but then, that's most likely the point. Even the Knight-Enchanters' training ground is watched over by a statue of Andraste in prayer, as if to remind them all who their magic is meant to serve. A terribly unfortunate thing to forget.

The relationship between the Chantry and the empire of Orlais is a complex one, and as a mage and a member of Court Vivienne is tied to both, though only one of them by choice. Consequently, she does not usually attend social functions between the two; what power she may leverage within the Chantry comes from a rather different place than that which she wields as Court Enchanter. In the end, even the Empress must kneel in front of the Divine, as a mage must submit to the Chantry. 

Rarely, however, Vivienne makes an exception.

"Sister Nightingale."

The Left Hand of the Divine stands half-shadowed, leaning against the wall and gazing out over the crowd.

The ceremony is over and both Divine Justinia and Empress Celene have retired from the Cathedral Ballroom, neither presumably finding gatherings such as these fertile ground for their pursuits. No doubt the Nightingale will depart soon as well, filling her function as the Divine's perpetual shadow. Even here, the vestments she has chosen are a shade of dark red that turns her complexion into a washed-out pallor, as if she has gone out of her way to find colors as ill-suited as possible.

"Madame de Fer." 

If she is surprised to be addressed, she shows nothing of it, expression bland and uninterested. They have met before but never spoken — still, positioned so close to the Divine, she must be used to people trying to catch her ear.

Her gaze makes the expected journey subtly, through slightly narrowed eyes. Vivienne is dressed in the traditional blue and silver of Ghislain, robes luxuriant and loosely open, drawing attention to her chest, of course, and her legs, tightly wrapped in the softest samite. The Maker gave her long legs and she enjoys few things more than towering over people, especially men, and women who mistakenly think their shrewdness outmatches hers.

She did not earn the Ghislain colors through blood or marriage. They are a gift, and if Sister Nightingale knows not of her connections already, she will read it in her clothing. The cut of her robes are adapted for the evening, the extravagant collar foregone and the lines left simple and unobstructed. The perfume is new to her, too, unexpected but not unpleasant when she turns and a hint of its scent reaches her nose. Small changes, unnoticeable to most, and perhaps they won't make any difference at all.

"The Empire and the Chantry are friends and allies, Sister," Vivienne says, "though judging by the people in this room you'd think otherwise. We ought to set an example and dance."

Sister Nightingale's gaze is still assessing, searching, but she nods. "I suppose I cannot deny such a convincing argument," she says, a sardonic quirk to her mouth, as if the idea is rather beneath her. "Would you like to lead, Madame?"

"What I would like is hardly relevant," Vivienne says, mindful to keep her expression neutral. "The Chantry stands above the Empress, does it not? As a representative of the Court, I will bow to you, as is proper."

She has never seen the Left Hand of the Divine engage in dancing before. Her background before the Fifth Blight is carefully shrouded and obscured — by design, no doubt — but it was never a great surprise that she once enjoyed a career as a Bard, and like any Bard worth their name, Sister Nightingale is a proficient dancer. She stands slightly shorter than Vivienne, though Vivienne is wearing only a low heel. With a better boot, she'd have a more appealing advantage on her.

Covered by the loose layers of Vivienne's robes, Sister Nightingale circles her thumb over the boning of Vivienne's corset, as if compelled by some old habit. Whether she abides by Chantry convention or is simply extraordinarily discreet is of course impossible to know, but according to public perception, she has been all but celibate since Justinia raised her up to stand at her side. Her relationship to the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight is, of course, public knowledge.

"Your perfume," Sister Nightingale says, leaning in every so slightly and tilting her head, "Crystal Grace, yes?"

A herb, rare in Orlais but so commonplace in the Fereldan countryside that dried petals must be added to every known wardrobe in the country. Sweet and light, far from the ruling fashion of heavier scents in Orlais, but pleasant in its simplicity. 

Vivienne has met her fair share of Bards, over the years. People sent to kill, hurt, steal, or spy. So far, these encounters have all ended in similar ways.

_You do have a particular talent for ending up on top_ , Bastien told her once. Well, there's no point in playing a game without the intention of winning. And sometimes the stakes are so high that failure is not an option.

*

On the Knight-Enchanter's training ground, under the statue of Andraste in prayer, Vivienne laces her leggings back up and watches Sister Nightingale carefully reconstruct her cool under the guise of arranging her vestments.

The clergy and the Chantry bureaucrats wear no masks, and such things are discouraged in the Grand Cathedral. As such, Vivienne's face is as bare as Sister Nightingale's. The physical shield is simply an aid, of course, and she long-since learned how to keep the real mask firmly in place. Sometimes, it seems like she's worn one so long it can no longer be removed at all... except, perhaps, by the one person who's always known how to see right through it.

"Before you go," Vivienne says, forcing any trace of tension from her voice, "we have an acquaintance in common."

In the distance, the music from the ballroom still plays, but the hour is late and the shadows make a too effective veil for Sister Nightingale's face, making her hard to read. "More than one, I'm sure," she says.

"He thought you might have forgotten, but he wanted you to know that he still remembers how you once saved his life."

"I am an agent of the Chantry. You may tell your friend to thank the Maker for the breath in his lungs, not me."

Her tone is bored. The business of saving lives must be dreadfully dull to those in the Chantry's employ. "So should we all," Vivienne says evenly, "but as I understand it, at the time your acts were not governed by the Chantry. His name is Enchanter Torrin. He transferred by choice to Montsimmard some months ago, from Kinloch Hold."

Even in the pale light from the moon, the color rising on Sister Nightingale's face is obvious. "It was a very long time ago that I visited the Ferelden Circle." Her face is as hard as marble. "I'm afraid I do not remember him."

Fractionally, so the change won't be noticeable, Vivienne allows herself to relax. Sister Nightingale has shown her hand. "Enchanter Torrin asked me to pass on some letters to you," she says, reaching into the hidden pocket in her robes. "Penned during the Fifth Blight by the Hero of Ferelden, before her passing."

As if she cannot help herself, as if her hands act on their own agenda, Sister Nightingale reaches for the letters with an urgency that would betray her even to someone less astute. 

"Why would he give me these?" she asks once they are hers, holding them like one might hold a snake, ready for it to bite.

"He hoped you might appreciate a keepsake from the Hero of Ferelden. As I understand it, she left very little behind. If they don't interest you, her letters might be quite valuable to the right buyer."

There's a suspicious look on Sister Nightingale's face, as she holds her gift harder, fingers whitening for a moment, before she tucks it somewhere under her vestments. Those who play the Game know better than to accept kindness for nothing: everything has a price, and it's far better to know what it is than to fumble in the dark.

Well. Vivienne will be happy to provide a price for her gift. 

"To be honest," she continues, "Torrin did have an ulterior motive for giving you his letters. There is a book he's been trying to acquire, one kept in the Grand Cathedral's library."

Something clears in Sister Nightingale's gaze, suspicion turning into understanding. "The library is not open to the public, as I'm sure you are both aware. It holds too many books the Chantry considers dangerous."

Vivienne nods. "I've heard as much. But perhaps you might be inclined to give him a tour sometime — under your personal observation, of course? He talks often of the Hero of Ferelden and the Blight. I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you again."

"I have no time to reignite old acquaintances," Sister Nightingale says, cool and in control, far from the heated embrace of before. "Come. You may take the book to him and send it back later, as recompense for his letters. Then you may tell him not to attempt to contact me again."

Sister Nightingale does not wait for an answer before turning and setting off in a steady march back through the garden. In the dark behind her, Vivienne allows herself a small, private smile.

*

Seasons change and time moves ever forward.

Vivienne walks into the dark little room they've assigned her in Haven's Chantry, unbuttoning her wet coat as she passes through the door, setting it down on her bed. The snow is wet today, something akin to icicles raining from the muddled sky, the paths a slush of snow and mud. No doubt the cold will take a firmer hold in the coming days, encasing the multitude of wet footprints in ice and making Haven impossible to walk through. The mountains between Ferelden and Orlais are truly a remarkable feat of charm and convenience.

Folding her sleeves up, Vivienne reaches for the bowl of cold water on the dresser, only to realize, with an uncomfortable prickling down her back, that she is not alone.

Luck is no substitute for skill and speed, and her barrier springs up the moment she senses the presence of another: a thin sheet of shimmering magic that will protect against blades and projectiles but little more. She reinforces it bit by bit as she rests her hands on the bowl of water, warming the water with little threads of fire from the Fade until steam rises from the surface.

In the corner of her eye, she notices a wet footprint not her own, and there is an ever so slight smell of damp wool and rust permeating the room. With no attack having come and no words being spoken, the potential identity of her unbidden visitor has rapidly diminished to one.

"I suppose I should not be surprised that you make a habit of sneaking into people's rooms. Once a Bard, well — I suppose the spots don't wash out."

Emerging from the shadow in the corner by the door is the Inquisition's elusive Spymaster. Her presence does not signify immediate danger, but Vivienne does not care for uninvited company in her private quarters.

"If the Herald had consulted with me before traveling to Ghislain," Leliana says, eyes hidden under the hood of her heavy cloak, "I would have recommended her to turn the invitation down."

Putting her hands in the steaming water, scrubbing away the dirt from her skin and the stiffness from her joints, Vivienne gives a short, mirthless laugh. "Is that so? Not one for dancing?"

"I expect deceit from anyone at home in the Court of Orlais, of course, but I would not think petty theft a skill honed by a Court Mage."

So the former Left Hand of the Divine holds a grudge. Somehow, Vivienne is not surprised. "I'm sure I don't know what you're referring to," she says, turning around and reaching for a cloth to dry her hands.

"The Alchemist's Encyclopedia."

The words hang between them for a moment, leaving the room eerily silent. "The book was paid for," Vivienne says, finally. "With letters, was it? Did you enjoy them?"

"You read them."

"Of course." 

"Then you know they were not of a personal kind."

"Does that mean you wouldn't have wanted them?"

Vivienne does not need Leliana to answer to know that isn't true. Even worthless things can be ascribed value, especially when sentiment is involved. 

"I met Warden Amell once, actually," she continues. "Before she was a Warden, of course, or the famed Hero of Ferelden, or even a proper mage yet. She was rather — arrogant, don't you think?"

Leliana scoffs, one side of her mouth quirking up. "I do not think anyone would refer to Solona as such if you were in the vicinity, Madame. You put as all to shame, yes?"

"She wished to be a Knight Enchanter, your Warden, did you know? She had talent. Perhaps she might have even been allowed to train as one, if the Wardens had not recruited her."

Under her hood, Leliana's lips pale as she presses them together. Anyone looking might see the wheels turn in her head, the what-if, the if-only, the could-have-been, the past shaken and scrambled into something new.

The thought of it makes the room feel rather less cold. Leliana is quite beautiful like this, emotions pulled to the surface by Vivienne's words and painted obvious on her face. It makes her want to go on, find other soft spots to cut, wounds and bruises to worry.

The Left Hand of the Divine must have many.

*

Was that not how it went, those years ago?

The memory is sweet: the Grand Cathedral decorated for the season, the heady pulse of Orlais, power and danger surrounding them like a fog. From the Grand Cathedral garden, there is a gate leading down to the Knight-Enchanters' training ground, empty and silent at night, surrounded by greenery turned silver in the moonlight. It matches the color of her robes perfectly.

While they danced, part of Vivienne’s awareness stayed on the letters, tucked away in the inside pocket of her robes, a hidden bulk against her bodice, ready to be brandished like a sword when the right moment struck. Letters from a Warden to the Circle she missed, accounts from someone long-since passed to the Maker's side. Trite words holding little historical value, worth only the price placed on a memory.

Leaning against one of the pillars surrounding a looming statue of Andraste in prayer, Vivienne lets Leliana close in, pushing the hidden weight of the letters between them.

It's a rare thing, in later years, that she takes any but one to her bed. More often than not, the risks outweigh the benefits; the more influence she accrues, the more she has to lose, the more she has to hide and protect, the more it all turns into another facet of the Game. If she must act a part, and of course she must, she might as well do it on a battlefield where all her skills might be utilized. 

She'll make an exception this evening; with each step further from the ballroom, the idea of it has seemed more alluring. There is something truly irresistible about the Left Hand of the Divine pliant before her, the intention in her eyes, her quickened breath and the wet shine to her lips. It makes her heart beat hard and hot, equilibrium shifting lower.

So Vivienne puts her out of her misery — fingers on Sister Nightingale's jaw guiding her closer until she can claim her mouth, teasing her lips open and breathing in this stolen intimacy that means nothing at all except for where it may take her. 

Her bodice is tightly laced, breasts bound against her chest, and Sister Nightingale lingers there, frustratingly, making Vivienne ache through her layers. She removes Sister Nightingale's fingers from the lacing of her corset and puts them instead on the straps of her trousers, leaving room for her to slide them down her legs until she's left bare from the waist down and Sister Nightingale is kneeling at her feet. Her loose robes makes for an insufficient cover, but the night is warm, the heat of the day still lingering, and regardless, Vivienne is unlikely to get cold.

On her knees, Sister Nightingale reaches up to touch her hip, pressing a kiss above her knee as she guides her leg to rest on her shoulder, against the silky fabric of her Chantry vestments. The color might be unbecoming but the quality of the fabric is one to be admired and touched; the slide of it against the inside of Vivienne’s thigh draws a shiver out of her.

Using her knuckles to give the lightest of strokes, Sister Nightingale briefly gazes towards the statue of Andraste behind the pillar, the thirsty look on her face replaced by a different hunger for a moment. For those not born into nobility, the Chantry might be a path to influence and power, but some are driven by belief as well. Perhaps Sister Nightingale is indeed as pious as she appears to be, though it clearly offers her no hindrance in the business of intimacy on Chantry ground. It takes only a moment for her eyes to return to Vivienne's thigh.

Steadying herself against the pillar, Vivienne exhales sharply as Sister Nightingale puts her lips on her inner thigh, letting her teeth scrape against her skin. 

Grasping the short hair at the nape of her neck, Vivienne gives a firm tug. Perhaps she might have treated her Fereldan lover such, once upon a time, but she has not earned that right with Vivienne.

"Do _not_ leave a mark."

When Sister Nightingale looks up, her eyes are very, very dark.

If this was not an event impossible to repeat, Vivienne might like to follow up on that gaze. As it is, she holds onto the pillar and settles for allowing Sister Nightingale to get back between her legs. She is blessed with a clever tongue and a single-minded focus, putting both to good work until Vivienne's need is raw and her back is curved against the pillar, and she almost, for a moment, forgets about the letters in her pocket and the book that she's here to collect.

_Almost._

*

Looking at Leliana now, in the chilly Chantry room, Vivienne wonders how badly her knees ached after kneeling on the stone floor.

There's a painting of Andraste hanging on the wall, a rather ugly rendition but functional enough, and Leliana glares at it for a few intense moments, before turning her gaze back to Vivienne, the look in her eyes far too easy to decipher. No doubt she remembers their previous encounter well.

"The book," Leliana says, making a tiresome return to something not her business. "What purpose did you have for it?"

"Some of us find great pleasure in knowledge, Sister Leliana. The Alchemist's Encyclopedia is a book about herbs, most of them extinct. It hardly warrants the Chantry's wrath."

It's unlikely she'll believe her, but that matters little. Leliana is the one who removed the book from the library, and gave it freely. Her anger alone cannot hurt Vivienne, certainly not in the current state of things. Even if it could, it would be worth it.

There is no telling what books were preserved and lost when Montsimmard fell. Such things are always accompanied by fire and destruction. Her own notes on the subject are meticulously kept, however, painstakingly copied and organized, and every letter burned into her memory regardless, words so important she could not forgot them even should she want to. 

"Why are you here, Vivienne, truly?" Leliana asks, and what a tedious question that is, when asked by so many different people.

"In case you failed to notice," she replies, "the sky has been ripped open."

"I am certain you will find some way of profiting from it."

"We will all profit from a return to stability."

"You," Leliana pauses, taking a breath and finding her equilibrium, "remind me very much of someone I knew when I was very young. A master of the Game, poisonous down to the very skin on her back. She taught me a great many things. I hope for your sake you will not share her fate."

Vivienne tilts her head. She does not know what happened to Torrin when the Circles fell. A gentle man, tall and graying, a talented painter before his eyesight failed him, and hardly one to ask for favors or to put a price on keepsakes. Perhaps he joined the rebels after all.

_Her robes were always blue, and she always carried with her the scent of Crystal Grace,_ he said when she asked, as if such a thing was not true of a good half of mages in Kinloch Hold.

Having met her only once, in passing, Vivienne remembers nothing but glimpses: slender and fine-limbed, shorter than Vivienne but only just, curls tightly pulled back from a face that was serious, driven — maybe a touch conceited. Clever, but much too outspoken for someone not yet Harrowed.

"If you're referring to your Warden," Vivienne says, "there's no need to worry. I'm not prone to self-sacrifice."

"I did not mean Solona, no," Leliana says, mouth curving in a smile, eyes shimmering in the dim light. "You don't remind me of her at all."


End file.
